Empathicalism
by movieholic
Summary: Slim to no chance of his memory being intact, of his sense of humor being intact, of his sense of faith, honor and family intact. No chance, to no chance, of Elliot Stabler being intact.


It was after a case. It was an ordinary case, or as ordinary as it got for Special Victims. It was open, and shut. Easy, and done. Running was, thankfully, toned down to a minimum. There were no kicking down of doors, and no long interrogations. It was _after_ the case when it hit him.

He had sat down on a cot, shifting his weight around just to hear the squeak echo in the dark room. His head was bent down, his elbows resting on his thighs. He laced his fingers together, two of which had formed a steeple, as his thumbs lay over one another. He had just been staring, not even looking at anything in particular, when he realized he was no longer sympathetic with the victims, he was empathetic.

When he tore his skin on teeth, skulls, metal, or brick, the blood that bled out was no longer his. It was the blood of every victim he was avenging.

When he awoke in the middle of the night with a startled yell, amidst sweat drenched sheets, it was no longer his voice casting it. They were the voices and the screams of the victims in his skull.

When he found himself cradling his head with bruised fingers, tears lining his partly closed eyelids, the salty droplets no longer belonged to him either. They were the tears shed by those wounded, by those degraded, by those no longer able to.

He used to ask if he was being too rough, too mean. Sometimes he'd ask if he was being too soft, too nice. These days, he asked if he was being too empathetic. If he was to involved, too invested. His partner would cast him a sad smile, and shake her head. "You can never be too empathetic, El," she'd respond, although her brown eyes knew. They knew where the blues eyes were heading: into disaster, into oblivion, into the bottom of a bottle, into an early grave.

He'd pause, as if mulling it over. He would tilt his head to the side, and chew on his bottom lip, before giving her a thoughtful nod. He knew too. He knew that the dark shadows under his eyes belied his carefree smile. That the answers to his soul really _were _the blue orbs that eyed her with a lingering sadness. That if he didn't pull out now, he'd die. He'd succumb to the voices, the cries, the tears, the blood...and die.

Sleep evaded day in and day out, scotch became glued to his right hand, and hunger reminded him every two seconds that he hadn't eaten a full meal in days. He had lost weight, and everyone had just chalked it up to whatever case that he was working on at the time. Every time he raised a hand to his temple in order to quell a headache, he'd raise the other one to stop his partner from commenting. Some even cracked jokes on how he was beginning to have more hair on his jawline than his head. He didn't mind. Those were the least of his worries.

He found himself alone, in the dark, thinking of different ways to ask his partner if he should eat his gun. Should I, Shouldn't I? Yes or No? Circle One. The only source of light has always been the moon, invading the room on it's own accord in slants, and he'd be constantly reminded of another reason why he should just end it. So he'd up and leave, and enter a bar. It'd be just as dark, only with a little more white noise. He'd order the usual, and absently thrust his hand into a bowl of nuts.

Halfway through his fourth or seventh beer it happens once more. His hand skimming the bottom of an empty bowl of peanuts, coming up slicked with oil, salt embedded in his fingers, is when it finally hits him, and he realizes what everyone sees him as. Pathetic. He had made the shift from being empathetic, to being just plain pathetic. His hand had jerked out of the bowl, sending it toppling to the linoleum floor with a shattering _crash_. Everything was still, everything was clear. He was pathetic. He was a failure. He was everything his father told him he was.

His eyes widened a hair, he mumbled an apology, and he asked for another round. And another. And another. And another. So long as he could order the bartender served them. Hell, he was making money off the man. Why shouldn't he had served him? But it had gone too far. They both went too far, and the man with the empty-eyes had suffered the most.

He had stood, and promptly fell down to the ground, smashing his nose against the very ground that smashed the bowl not too long before. He hadn't felt a thing. He was out cold. He was out, period. The doctor's said he had done a lot of damage. The alcoholism and fall had done him in, and he would remain in a coma for a long while. A long, long while. Slim to no chance of waking up, and he if ever did? If? If, if, if? If he ever woke from the coma? Slim to no chance of his memory being intact, of his sense of humor being intact, of his sense of faith, sense of honor and sense of family being intact.

No chance, to no chance, of Elliot Stabler being intact.

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**END.**

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